


Vapid

by seraphichan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Drinking, Frottage, M/M, Mild Language, Slurs, bond being a shit, it's one hell of a night, q being a shit, sort of almost sexy times, they're both little shits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 03:51:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13355910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphichan/pseuds/seraphichan
Summary: “I only meant we should go do something together,” Bond mumbled. “Something a little more lively.”Guilt gripped at Q’s chest.The times Bond wasn’t in the field were limited, which meant so were their times together. And perhaps Qwasbeing a bit dull by just sitting at home and reading a book. It couldn’t hurt to humor him for the night.“Alright. What do you suggest?”





	Vapid

“--a little bland,” Bond sighed.

“It probably needed garlic or something.”

“...What?”

Q hummed. “I’m no chef, but that’s what I would--”

“You weren’t paying attention were you?”

The question startled Q. He looked up at Bond. “Of course I was,” he huffed indignantly. “You were talking about dinner.”

“Actually,” Bond began, leaning closer and snapping the cover of the book on Q’s lap closed, “I was talking about our evening. You’ve been sitting around reading that insipid little story for the past hour and a half. I’m bored.”

“For your information, _Wuthering Heights_ is witty and eloquent--”

“--and tedious and dreary--” Bond tapped his finger against the cover with each syllable.

“--and _delicate._ ”

Q smacked Bond’s hand away from his book and reopened the cover, correcting any pages out of place - it was so old, and Q had read it so many times, that it tended to fall apart at the slightest touch, which included abruptly slamming it closed and poking it.

“I only meant we should go do something together,” Bond mumbled. “Something a little more lively.”

Guilt gripped at Q’s chest.

The times Bond wasn’t in the field were limited, which meant so were their times together. And perhaps Q _was_ being a bit dull by just sitting at home and reading a book. It couldn’t hurt to humor him for the night.

“Alright. What do you suggest?”

Bond smiled crookedly. “Let’s go for a drink.”

Q narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. The bastard had this planned from the start, and Q had followed along with it spectacularly. Q didn't make a habit of drinking. He couldn't tolerate much - twig of a man as he was - so he just avoided alcohol all together.

What he couldn't avoid, however, was a challenge.

“Very well. Shall we start in Piccadilly?”

+++++

Start in Piccadilly they did, but where they ended up, Q didn't have the foggiest. He was aware that they rode the tube several times, but the trips had become steadily more disorienting and eventually he had given up on trying to figure it out. All he did know was that the pub they were in now smelled strongly of smoke and mint, the latter probably due to the green colored concoction in front of him. He didn’t remember ordering that. What the bloody hell was it?

“What the bloody hell is this?” he asked Bond.

“A grasshopper.”

“Beg pardon?”

“You said you wanted something sweet.”

Q eyed the drink skeptically, and, upon finding that it did not contain the insect for which it was so named, picked up the glass and took a sip.

It was good. He quickly started to drink more.

“Perhaps you should take your time,” Bond suggested.

Q put the empty glass on the bar and licked his lips.

“Another.”

Three “Another”s later, and Q couldn't really feel his tongue, but that didn't keep him from using it. He wasn’t quite sure what he was saying, but Bond was watching him fondly, so, despite the fact that he was holding Bond’s hand and leaning slightly closer to him than was exactly proper seeing as they were in public _and_ potentially singing “God Save the Queen” off-key in a funny accent, he couldn’t quite muster the ability to care.

Almost.

“Fucking fags.”

Q’s teeth clicked as he clamped his mouth shut and whipped his head around so fast he made himself dizzy.

“Sod off,” Bond warned, danger in his tone.

The man that had made the comment was either too stupid - he did look to have the intelligence of a brick wall - or too stubborn or too bloody drunk to hear it, because he stood from the small table behind them and got closer, puffing out his chest like some oversized featherless bird.

“Fucking,” he repeated, “fa--”

Q punched him.

Granted it wasn't very hard. The man was more stunned than hurt, and more than a little pissed, face red with embarrassment. He grabbed Q’s collar.

And this time Bond punched him.

Now that, Q was certain, definitely hurt.

He released Q and stumbled backwards. This didn’t seem to satisfy Bond, however, so he punched the man again. He hit the floor hard, face still red, but the hue of embarrassment replaced by that of a split lip and bloody nose.

There was a tangible pause and then all hell broke loose. Two other men stood - friends of the one prone on the ground Q would guess - and stalked towards them, only for one to be tripped by a different bargoer and the other to be tackled, full tilt, by Bond. There was a mixture of jeering and cheering as more people flung themselves into the scuffle. The bartender vaulted over the countertop with a wooden bat and someone threw a chair. Q heard himself laugh, and then he was stumbling through the fray as well, riding the sea of bodies until he found Bond and pulled him by the arm out of the crowd and out of the bar, running as soon as his feet hit asphalt.

The night air felt like fire in Q’s lungs, but he kept going, kept sprinting until Bond overtook him and changed their course, steered them off the main street and out of sight of anyone who might have chased after them.

“Lively enough for you?” Q asked, hands on his knees as he greedily gulped down air.

“There could have been just one more, I think. I've still a few buttons on my lapel,” he said as he plucked minute specks of dirt from his shoulders and straightened his cuffs.

Q snorted. How dare he look so dashing and be so smug after a bar brawl? It was inconceivable.

And damn attractive.

He dragged Bond down by his tie and kissed him, open mouthed and breathless.

“James,” he said, smiling at how Bond's pupils dilated at the rare use of his first name, “take me home.”

+++++

Q didn't remember the ride on the tube at all this time. Maybe they walked. Or maybe they took a cab. Everything about getting to their flat was hazy until Bond was guiding him backwards through the door, teeth biting at his neck.

They made their way to the bedroom where Bond pressed him into the mattress, hands down his pants now, groping his ass. He moved their hips together, a slow and steady grind that made tingles run up Q’s spine.

God, this was hot.

Too hot.

Oh no. He was going to be sick.

“Wait. James, wait. _Bond--!_ ”

He put his hand on Bond’s chest and shoved him away just in time to lean over the edge of the bed and unceremoniously vomit onto the floor.

“Shit.”

Q didn't know if he said it or if Bond did - or if it was the both of them - but the next thing he knew the room was spinning and he was weightless and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from throwing up again. Then he was sitting. On the floor. And his forehead was leaning against something cool. It felt so good he moaned, vaguely aware of Bond’s fingers carding gently through his hair.

+++++

Q woke up head thumping and mouth thick with cotton. He blinked blearily, taking entirely too long to focus and taking even longer to realize that he was on the bathroom floor, head resting against the toilet seat.

Snippets of the evening came back to him and he groaned and sighed and closed his eyes again.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he woke up this time, a hand pressing at various places on his face as if to gauge his temperature.

Q peered up at Bond through slitted eyes.

“This is your fault,” he rasped.

“Undoubtedly,” Bond agreed. “Now drink.”

Q balked. “Never again.”

“It's only water.”

Q lifted his head from the toilet seat and took the cup Bond offered. He drained it slowly, giving it back after a few minutes.

“Should I move you back to bed?”

A mattress would be a great deal comfier than the tiling, but Q wasn’t sure if his stomach wouldn’t turn on him again.

“The toilet’s fine.”

Bond nodded and left and eventually returned with more water, a blanket, and a book. Q recognized the tattered cover.

He snorted. “You realize I am in no fit state to read.”

“That's why _I_ was going to read it to you,” he said as he draped the blanket over Q and placed the glass of water within his reach.

“What? Seriously?” Q gave him an incredulous look, drank more water.

Bond sat next to him on the floor and made a show of clearing his throat, then he opened the book

And all the pages fell out in his lap.

“Probably for the best. It’s tedious and dreary, right?” Q teased.

“On the contrary,” Bond said as he shuffled through the loose paper, “I’ve heard it’s witty and eloquent--ah. Here we are.”

He cleared his throat again and Q rolled his eyes with a smile. He rested his head on the toilet seat once more as Bond began to read.

“ _‘I have just returned from a visit to my landlord--’_ ”


End file.
